


The Pomegranate Rooms

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lucifer Box - Mark Gatiss
Genre: Crowley is asleep, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Hundred Guineas Club, I really have no idea what I'm doing, M/M, More tags to be added, The Pomegranate Rooms, Victorian era, lonely Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 13:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: Without the demon Crowley around to thwart, Aziraphale seeks some companionship.This is purely a bit of fluff.





	The Pomegranate Rooms

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the very late Victorian Era and prior to the events in The Vesuvius Club.

While some beings chose to sleep a way a good portion of the 19th century, there were those who threw themselves into the late Victorian era with the energy of something or other. Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate was one of them.

He had found solace in the Hundred Guineas Club and met quite a lot of fascinating individuals, one of which was the reason he was currently stood outside a rather unimpressive building called the Pomegranate Rooms. It had been suggested to him, that he might meet _someone_ (quite discretely of course) that might take his fancy, or if he fancied a different type of dance than the Gavotte that this was certainly the place to be.

The angel did not think that was the case; his heart rather belonged to another, as he had come to realise in the past hundred years or so. However, at this moment, a little companionship might not go amiss. Yes, he had the book shop, but without the demon Crowley being about (and awake) to thwart, he had missed the companionship of another being; to drink wine with or to chat about literature with (even if that was always very much one sided). 

On that thought, he crossed the threshold of the club. He handed over his hat to the girl at the door, as one was wont to do, of course, and followed the sound of raucous laughter and cigarette smoke.

Once inside, he was rather unsure that the gentleman of his acquaintance had ever been here at all. The floors were rather sticky, and the tables looked like they hadn’t been tidied or cleaned in some time. However, the clientele, they were absolutely fabulous; gorgeous in their finery. Scrumptious, one might even say.

Aziraphale made his way around the main room, circling it and smiling and nodding as he passed couples and individuals. He found a place to sit, from where he could observe for the time being, and ordered a bottle of wine. When it arrived, he raised an eyebrow at the contents. Really, what did he expect in such an establishment? With a slight wave of his hand he subtly improved its vintage tenfold. He then poured himself a glass, sat back, and observed.

He had just finished his glass of wine, when he saw him. In fact, he did a double take. Sitting a few tables away, was a very gorgeous being indeed. He was pale, with a long, elegant neck. He had flowing, dark hair, with a body that was meant to wear such finery as he was; a most perfectly tailored tuxedo. Aziraphale watched as the gentleman in question swallowed down the last of his drink, watching his Adam’s apple bob. Before he knew what he was doing, he had picked up the bottle of wine, his glass (along with a second that had appeared out of the ether) and walked up to the other gentleman’s table.

“Good evening,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t wish to intrude, but I couldn’t possibly finish this all on my own,1 and thought you might wish to partake in a glass or two?”

The dark-haired gentleman raised his eyes and allowed them to look the newcomer up and down. He regarded the blonde, who dressed like a Victorian dandy and who had the eyes the colour of cornflowers. He was also offering up free hock, and well, he certainly wasn’t going to complain about _that_. There was also something about him, something so vibrantly _honest_ , that he felt that he couldn’t say no.

He nodded to the second chair. “Please, sit down,” he said to Aziraphale. “My name is Lucifer Box,” he added, holding out his hand. He was shocked at the name that had come out of his mouth. Normally, he used one of his various pseudonyms, but for some reason, he felt unable to lie at the moment. How terribly odd, he thought to himself.

Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate couldn’t contain the peal of boisterous laughter that escaped, mixing and melding with the ambient noise around them. “Oh, dear me,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me. My apologies.” He paused a moment and realised he hadn’t introduced himself in return. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he took Lucifer’s hand in his as he continued. “Aziraphale.”

1: Oh wouldn’t Crowley be proud of his little white lie!

**Author's Note:**

> This ridiculous idea came to me as I was walking to work one day and I simply had to write it down. It's not meant to be terribly long, and it will probably be quite silly. Please forgive any historical inaccuracies.


End file.
